The Mysterious Disappearance of Sherlock Holmes
by BakerStIrregular
Summary: “There were no clues in the apartment,” I interrupted the agent. My words spewed and sharpened in the office resolutely. “Nothing he said before hinted at his disappearance. He gave no trace of his whereabouts, none. No clues.”
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: The Facts Thereof**

Holmes had disappeared early that morning, leaving not a clue of his whereabouts.

He had not informed me of any present case he had been working on. As it was common, only yesterday I spied him lying on the sofa, his seven-percent solution on the dresser beside (a familiar practice when idleness and unemployment got the best of him). Crooked, sighing heavily, and muttering to himself, I had posed for him to join me for a walk. He rose from his position, walked toward me, and at the frame, Holmes had shut the door in my face.

I had known Holmes to wallow from time to time, for the man who had been my colleague and my friend for more than five years had the most severe of lows. But to lash out like that—it was simply uncharacteristic of my comrade. The following morning—as it was customary— I had my coffee, went upstairs to check on him, and discovered his absence.

So perhaps it was a newly acquired mystery he was in pursuit of solving. Then why was I not informed? Was it a completely private affair? Perhaps a governmental inquiry, of which he was bound to secrecy? And could not I, his most confident of friends, be trusted with the case he was involved in?

Mrs. Hudson, who seemed ignorantly cheerful of Holmes' absence—for his peculiarities, I fear, get the worst of the landlady— had stated that she heard soft footsteps in the middle of the night, and rising out of bed to see what was afoot, she peered into his room. His bed empty, his coat removed from his rack, his trilby unseen.

"Surely he's on the track of some crook, only the Lord knows where," Mrs. Hudson dismissed resolutely.

"None that I am aware of."

"Oh, you know the man," kneeling to pick up a clump of dust on the main hall floor. "That Mr. Holmes. Peculiar, peculiar. I wouldn't be surprised if he came in through the door at this very instant."

But he did not. In fact, the next night had passed and still there was no sign of him.

I had left a note to Landlady Hudson that I had gone in search of fifty-percent of the monthly rent, and that I would return no later than two in the morning. I went to the usual spots. Hyde Park; the bars of the West End; the former residence of Ms. Irene Adler of which he was fond of standing about. Still not a clue.

I considered putting an ad out. But what would the papers say? "Consulting Detective Missing." The Newsmen'd all declare the crooks had gotten the best of the smartest man in London. Just think, how many men—some were esteemed and well-liked men—had Holmes sent to prison? But what if he was hot on the trail of some dastardly criminal? Surely then, the lawbreakers would be warned that Sherlock Holmes was in the works, covering every dark corner of London!

And what if in those places I searched for him, he was masked, disguised, obscured from my sight? Could he have been feigning his identity in pursuit of a criminal? I tried to remember those sharp and piercing eyes, his beakish nose, or that square jaw that could be hidden behind a thick beard as I scanned denizens of the late London streets.

It was late, and the lurkers became more prevalent as I hustled back to Baker Street. In the morning I would call the top men of Scotland Yard-- for Gregson, Lestrade, Hopkins, Jones. The men whom my friend had equal disdain and admiration for. In the afternoon, there was some word back—Mrs. Hudson had gathered the telegraphs, responses made almost immediately after my inquires. All on one singular telegraph, typed:

_Doctor Watson: Gregson and Hopkins on assignment in Liverpool; Lestrade investigating a series of train robberies in Wales; Jones on vacation Normandy._

The Diogenes Club was my last option. Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, led a quiet life there, and his mysterious connections with the British Government were in one word: ineffable.

I entered the dark, smoky club, and was immediately greeted by the guard at the front door. The old receptionist at the front desk, unable to recognize me as a Diogenerian, hissed a command, and the doorman thundered toward me. As the large man began to coerce me to the door, a larger fellow passed behind, booming silently past the front desk.

"Mycroft!" My voice echoed through the hall of the club, bouncing off its large oak walls.

Mycroft shot a glance and pointed to the sign that read overhead the archway entrance. In gold-paint lettering:

RULE NUMBER ONE:

Absolutely no talking—of ANY nature!

Violators subject to expulsion and fines!

Mycroft sighed. He motioned to a side door, a small recess in the wall that read "Stranger's Room." The door man and the old man merely rolled their eyes and let me pass through.

The door opened, I followed him through a maze of tables and chairs. This room emptied into a series of small doors, seemingly closets for the housekeepers. Pressing one hand on the peculiar brass knob and the other on its frame, the door gave way silently, revealing a small workman's tunnel. It smelled of oil and dampness. Mycroft hesitated before squeezing his outsized frame through the lightless tunnel. Following, I closed the door behind and went forward. I stayed decidedly close to Mycroft until I heard a click, and flame light filtered back into the tunnel.

We were in Mycroft's office. A large office, covered on all sides with large, monolithic chandeliers that lit the room dimly. The desk in the center of the room looked a mess, and I stepped over a multitude of papers and factfiles as I delved.

Mycroft let out a loud, unrestrained huff as he sat behind his desk. He motioned me to take a seat on the only chair in the room, a hard back with iron grips and bars attached to them.

"Now, Dr. Watson, what is it I can do for you? If it is that abominable brother of mine trying to squeeze governmental information through me, I fear I have nothing to say, even to his friends."

I paused briefly, causing him to look at me through the disheveled desk with impatience.

"He is missing."

Mycroft scoffed, "Sherlock…missing?"

"Missing," I replied. "Mycroft, this is a crisis. He has been gone for three days. Sherlock Holmes does not simply disappear without cause."

"And so you say positively there is not a cause?"

"Well, I cannot say anything positively."

"Then perhaps Sherlock has disappeared _with_ a cause."

"Perhaps--and perhaps not! Can't you alert your top men?"

"Absolutely not," Mycroft retorted, glancing at the stack of papers in front of him. "This may be a crisis to you, but it is not enough to declare a state of emergency within my department or any other department, John."

Like his brother, Mycroft studied me top to bottom as he made his slow, decisive inquiries.

"Were his clothes in his apartment?"

"Everything, all but his jacket and trilby missing."

"And his pistol?"

"Still in its case."

"And the state of the apartment—?"

"As it was the day before. Nothing out of place"

"And the windows, were they—?"

"There were no clues in the apartment," I interrupted the agent. My words spewed and sharpened in the office resolutely. "Nothing he said before hinted at his disappearance. He gave no trace of his whereabouts, none. No clues."

"But the clues are there, Watson!" Mycroft warned. "If I know my brother, the clues are there!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Tobias Gregson Weighs In**

The broad windows poured afternoon light into the unkempt bed-room of my missing friend. Taking Mycroft's advice, I decided to further inspect his shabby quarters— in search of some answer. Mrs. Hudson, fortunately, had not tidied up his room yet, so it was just as it had been the night of Holmes' disappearance.

The room was in a familiar state of disarray. Papers and hardback novels strewn across the floor. The occasional lens and Petri dish, a stray bullet, the ash of a cigar. His syringes, empty now, were scattered amongst the small desk opposite his unmade bed.

At the small desk stood a small mirror Holmes had used for shaving. Underneath, a ceramic bowl, filled halfway with translucent water. The smell of shaving soap and rubbing alcohol came from the dingy water. Holmes had been shaving before he went missing.

But on further inspection there were no beard-hairs in the pot. I took a finger and swashed about the creamy water. Inside was the steel straight razor, dull to the touch; a blade unfitting for Holmes markedly smooth face.

Elsewhere in the apartment, I searched around. His frock and trilby were, just as I had inspected before, missing. No sign in of them in the closets are elsewhere in the apartment. Perhaps, then, Sherlock was indeed on the trail of some criminal—and taken his jacket and fedora with him. But sat locked and unloaded in its case. Was I to believe that Sherlock had left of his own volition? Or was he coerced by someone?

Then, a knock on the door.

I hurriedly stepped over the door, and unlatched it slowly with my left hand. My right hand clenched and readied itself into a fist. But the Tobias Gregson, the inspector from Scotland Yard, stood opposite, with Mrs. Hudson by his side.

"A chap informed me you had stopped by the station yesterday," Tobias said. "Something about Sherlock Holmes. Thought I'd drop by."

"Inspector Gregson, I was notified you were on assignment in Liverpool," I told him, stunned.

"Liverpool? What the hell would I be doing in Liverpool?"

"That's what the telegram said."

Gregson furrowed his eyebrows and stared. His previous liveliness was replaced by an expression of severity, the weariness of his profession now deep on his face. He placed his thick hands on his hips and asked to see the telegram. Still folded in my back pocket, I handed him the typed paper. He studied it for a minute or so, his eyebrows furrowing again, his face reddening, his eyes scanning. Mrs. Hudson had left to do more housework, leaving the two of us in Sherlock's empty room.

"See," Tobias started, "this is no good. Our memos, first of all, are handwritten. They tax the hell out of the city, but London still can't afford to give us some decent typewriters."

He scanned the telegram once more.

"Secondly, I'd be damned if I got assigned with Hopkins again, the damned fool. And I just had a pint with Peter Jones yesterday—no mention of Normandy. He's been assigned to investigate a murder and burglary on Church Road. Your telegram, Dr. Watson, is a fake."

"I expected as much, Inspector. But who would be responsible for this? And how did my inquiry land in another's hands?"

Tobias Gregson handed the telegram back.

"If I make an official inquiry, any good answers won't be available for another week. Scotland Yard's got ears for walls, but buttons for lips. My guess is that somebody unofficial retrieved the letter before it got into the right hands."

"And who could that be?"

"Some journalist, I can only assume," Gregson eyes shifted. "Wants to stir some quick story."

Gregson threw his coat over his shoulder and went for the hallway.

"Or maybe even some pesky Londoner with some time on his hands," Gregson paused. "Could even be British Intelligence. Say, that friend of yours has a brother in Secret Service, doesn't he?"

I waved Gregson off dismissively, "Not that I am aware of." Gregson's nose was always where it shouldn't be.

Gregson, though, had made it clear enough—this was as much help from the inspector I was to expect. With Holmes gone, to Gregson there was one less crime-stopper to take his glory.

"Either way," he said out of the corner of his mouth, lighting a cigarette, "it's worth looking into, that's for sure. Good day, Doctor."

And with an about-face, Tobias Gregson left the scene. I was not to expect that the inspector was a part of the crime. Gregson, at least, was above that. But as I had seen with Lestrade, Gregson took exacting measures to insure there was only one successful man: himself. From Holmes window, I watched the Inspector tip his hat to a lady on Baker Street, and make his way back to the station.

Confound him! He could not offer any intelligence to lead to the discovery of my dear friend. Only one clue: that the telegram I had received was a fake.

The following night I had attempted to sleep, but to no avail. It was

As I lay in bed, I heard a muffled creak— I could only assume it was from the floorboard. It was nowhere close to dawn and there was a shadowy stillness in the air. I raised myself from bed and headed for the window. As I inspected the quiet window setting, light danced along the window. There was, as I had assumed, an unexpected visitor.

I swung around. My pistol was stowed deep inside my nightstand drawer—no where near me. He went for

The intruder elbowed himself through the window sending shards of glass flittering on the floor as he tried to stage his escape. I yanked him back by his collar and met him with a heavy-handed punch that sent him spiraling through the room onto the floor. With the swift patience of force I had learned in my army days, I met him before he rose. I grabbed him by his neck and backed him against the wall.

Along the wall, was a spiked cast-iron prod, used to stir the ashes in the wood stove beside the bed. I took a hold of it jabbed it against his throat.

"Who are you?" I yelled, the prod so close it could cut his neck now.

"Doctor Watson," the man started, in a peculiarly Russian accent, "As per hees request, I hev come to retrieve you in asseesting Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

I loosened the grip on the prod, "But where is he?"

"Moscow."


End file.
